


Our Armor All As Strong

by queenofthorns



Series: Brave New World [2]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 03:52:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofthorns/pseuds/queenofthorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In King's Landing, Cersei and Jaime both visit Brienne with very different motives. </p><p>Spoilers through Episode 3.09 of the show, which is where I branched off from book canon too!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Armor All As Strong

As the Queen approaches, Brienne backs away until she feels the window’s stone ledge at her back. Cersei has all the easy grace Brienne once envied in Jaime; her proximity makes Brienne feel like a plowhorse next to a palfrey.

“We are most grateful,” Cersei repeats, “for your part in Jaime’s safe return.”

“Th-thank you, Your Grace,” Brienne stutters, her head swimming from the heavy spice of Cersei’s perfume.

“I understand that you are to stay with us for some time,” the Queen says with a tight-lipped smile. “Do you have any clothes to wear at court, dear?”

 _Some time_ , Brienne wonders. _What has Jaime told her?_ “Lord Tywin’s steward brought me clothing, Your Grace.” Brienne nods over at the neat pile stacked on her bed.

The Queen fingers the white shirts and black breeches and the long black leather coat laid out beside them. “But there has been some mistake,” she says. “This is a Lannister guardsman’s uniform.”

“I prefer men’s clothing, Your Grace,” Brienne mutters.

“You’ve never been at court before, have you?” Cersei gives her a long, considering look that reminds Brienne uncomfortably of Jaime when they first met _. We were enemies then_ , she reminds herself. “There is a decorum we must observe. Jaime tells me you are a highborn maiden.” The curl of Cersei’s lip invests those words with disdain. _And the Queen is my enemy now_. “You cannot wander about dressed like a man!”

“When I served in King Renly’s court --” Brienne begins.

“ _Lord_ Renly was a traitor, a usurper and a pervert besides, and you would be wise to remember that.” The Queen’s honey-sweet tones have changed to steel. “The King thanks you for the service you rendered his uncle, but he has not forgotten your most unfortunate choice of allegiances.” 

 _And if he has, his mother will be sure to remind him._ Brienne imagines her left hand locked in Cersei’s golden hair, her right with a sword at Cersei’s white throat, forcing her to take back her cruel words about Renly. Instead, she bows her head and clenches her teeth, trembling from the effort of keeping silent. Let the Queen think her a witless plank; it is better than languishing in a dungeon, of no use to Lady Stark’s daughters. Others have thought her slow and dull; their scorn and misprision have served her well.

“You’re cold,” Cersei says. “Poor thing!” She is at the door now, turning for one last contemptuous glance at Brienne. “We shall have to find something suitable for you to wear before you venture out into the world.” 

 _So I am a prisoner_. _At least until Jaime comes to free me._

No sooner has Cersei shut the door than Brienne hastily dresses, though it pains her to wear the uniform of Lady Catelyn’s enemies. The linen shirt is fine and smooth as silk, embroidered with tiny lions’ heads at the cuffs and neck; the supple leather breeches are as soft as butter and the clasps of the coat are chased with red enamel and gold. The Lannisters must be rich beyond dreaming if even the men of their household guard dress so finely. 

Once she is dressed, Brienne takes a peach and bites down through the downy skin. Sweet nectar fills her mouth. Unbidden, she remembers Jaime on the road to King’s Landing, slipping raspberries between her lips. She settles in the chair and stretches out her legs to wait for him as he bade her. Shadows chase each other across the stone ceiling, the light turns from gold to rose to the pale silver of moonrise and still he does not come. 

***

A knock sounds at the door, and Brienne wakes unwillingly from a dream of summer kings with gilded hair. “A minute,” she says, slipping a robe over the thin shift she slept in. This time she will not be taken unawares.

She opens the door to find the maids who helped her with her bath the day before. They are both burdened with armfuls of silk and satin, and Brienne’s heart sinks.

“What is this?” Brienne asks.

“Gowns, m’lady,” the older one says, laying at least a dozen out on the bed

“I don’t want them,” Brienne tells her. “Take them away.”

“The Queen’s orders, m’lady,” the younger one says. “She said we were to help you choose something suitable.”

“I don’t want something suitable,” Brienne says. 

“Please, m’lady,” the older maid says. “The Queen ordered us ...” She looks pleadingly at Brienne, who realizes that these women will be punished if she opposes Cersei’s will.

“Very well,” she says with a sigh. “But may I have some breakfast first?” Her stomach rumbles as though to punctuate her request.

“Yes, m’lady. Mildreth will fetch it at once.” She nods at the door and the younger of the two scurries away. 

“What’s _your_ name?” Brienne asks. 

“Annis, m’lady.” 

“You need not call me ‘my lady’; my name is Brienne.” 

“That would never do,” Annis smiles, and shakes her head. “M’lady.” 

“Have you been here long?” Brienne gestures vaguely, not sure whether she means the Red Keep or King’s Landing or the service of the royal family.

“Aye,” Annis says. “I grew up in the Red Keep. My father was a cook in Prince Rhaegar’s household.”

“What happened to him?” Brienne asks.

“He was killed when Lord Tywin--” She stops. “When the city was sacked.”

Any further confidences are interrupted by the arrival of Mildreth, who carries a tray piled high with warm bread, boiled eggs, porridge, honey and milk. Brienne eats slowly, aware that each bite puts off the trial of Cersei’s gowns.

At last she can delay no more. She stands in her shift in front of the floor length mirror, her face and body a collection of imperfections cruelly highlighted in the brilliant morning light. The gowns are puce and scarlet and wildfire green, colors that have never suited her. None of them fit; they bind under the arms, strain across her shoulders and gape at her chest. She knows there is no gown that will make her beautiful, but these all seem carefully chosen to make her ugly. _More ugly_.

Brienne is flushed and on the verge of tears by the time they find one that she can wear. Her ankles and a few inches of her calf till show beneath the hem, but at least this one closes modestly across her illusory bosom and she can lift her arms without fear of ripping the seams. Unfortunately, this gown is made of shiny satin, striped yellow and black. 

“You look like a bumblebee,” a familiar voice says. They must have forgotten to close the door when Mildreth brought Brienne’s breakfast; Jaime saunters in without so much as a warning knock. He wears his Kingsguard armor and the gold of his hair vies with the brightness of his breastplate. His snowy cloak falls in precise folds from his shoulders, and his boots gleam. His presence makes the room seem warmer, and Brienne feels the ludicrousness of her dress more acutely. 

“How long have you been there?” she asks him, hoping that he has not been witness to the past hour's humiliations.

 “Why?” Jaime says. “Have I missed anything, apart from your atrocious taste in clothing?”

 Brienne’s lips tighten and she frowns. 

“No need for that ominous expression,” Jaime says. “I’ve only just arrived and I brought you something.” The dark-haired squire who follows Jaime carries a suit of red and black armor, topped by a semi-circular helmet. “I should have told Tomard to find you a room lower down in this damned tower for poor Gavyn’s sake.”   

The squire sets down his burden with evident relief. “My thanks,” Jaime says. “Now go and do whatever it is young men like to do on a fine morning. Shut the door behind you.”

When Gavyn has gone, Jaime turns to Mildreth and Annis. “And if it please you, my dears, I should like to speak with Lady Brienne in private.” He favors each of them with a smile and a gold dragon pressed into her palm. “Here’s something for your kindness. And perhaps it will help you forget I was here.”  

Mildreth giggles, but Annis looks at Brienne with an unspoken question on her face. Brienne shakes her head, touched by the woman’s concern. “Ser Jaime and I have much to discuss,” she says.

Once Jaime has shut and locked the door, he lets his mask of light-heartedness slip and Brienne sees how shadowed his eyes are and how taut his shoulders. He moves carefully, as though he is uneasy in his own skin, holding his stump away from his side to keep it from tangling with the hilt the sword he wears. _It's on the wrong side; he's off-balance._  

“What is all this?” Jaime raises an eyebrow at Brienne’s yellow gown. “I thought _my_ clothes would fit you. You are a little taller than I am, but our legs are the same length.”

  _Of course_ , she thinks. Those were Jaime’s shirts and breeches. No wonder they were so finely made.

 “They did. They were ...” She falters. “But Her Grace told me I could not wear men’s clothes here at court.”

 “Cersei?” Jaime asks disbelievingly. “She came here?”

 “Yes,” Brienne says. “She was ... kind enough to send me all these gowns.” 

 Jaime’s lips twist. “I think we both know kindness had nothing to do with it.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Of course,” he says. “I should have guessed she’d be jealous.”

“Of _me_?” The Queen’s beauty is prodigious; it is inconceivable that she could be envious of Brienne.

“Not of your person, of course,” Jaime continues.

Though he only echoes what she was thinking, his words still prick her heart, the latest in a lifelong series of wounds. _Brienne the Beauty_ , Renly’s knights called her. She turns her face so he cannot see her. “Of course,” she echoes dully.

“Seven Hells, Brienne,” Jaime curses. “That’s not ... I didn’t mean ... She is jealous of your freedom.”

“My freedom? She as good as told me I was a prisoner in this room.”

“Your freedom,” Jaime says firmly.

“What did you tell her of me?” Brienne asks.

“That you know how to use that sword as well as any knight I’ve ever known.” 

_But I am no knight. I am a woman like Cersei. And it was not my skill at arms that saved me from rape, but your lie._

“And I told her that you were brave and stubborn and loyal, and that I owed you my life.”

Brienne stares at him. 

“Yes,” Jaime says. “I spoke too much.” He crosses to Brienne’s window and looks out at the sea. “When we were children, Cersei and I would exchange clothes sometimes. She’d wear my swordbelt too; I taught her what I learned from our master-at-arms.” He chuckles. “And I would take her place amidst the ladies with their needles. Septa Alayne never understood how Cersei’s embroidery could vary so wildly in quality.”

“Did you do it often?” Brienne asks, curious despite herself.

 “Until I was sent to squire for Lord Crakehall,” Jaime says. “Especially after our mother died. That was when Cersei swore she’d never marry and have babies because they killed you.” He turns and shrugs. “If she had been a boy, she would have been the heir to Casterly Rock, as you are your father’s heir.”

 “My father,” Brienne says with a start. “I must let him know ...”

 “I had Maester Pycelle send a raven to Tarth.” Jaime turns back from the window. “He will know you are safe.”

 “Thank you,” Brienne says softly.

“A Lannister pays his debts,” Jaime says. “And now you must change out of that ridiculous gown before you blind me.” 

“Turn your back,” she orders him and slips gratefully out of her striped satin, and into the comfort of Jaime’s clothes. 

When she’s decent, she lets him turn around. “I was right. They do fit you,” Jaime says, satisfied. “And quite well too.” He gestures towards the armor Gavyn has left. “That’s a suit of Lannister armor; you will need that as well.”

Jaime helps her as best he can with cuirass and pauldrons and faulds. “I’ve had squires with _two_ left hands,” he tells her. “You are far more patient than I ever was.”

“I’ve never had a squire,” Brienne tells him. “I have no standards to uphold.”

"Luckily for me," Jaime grins. "One more thing,” he says, touching the sword by his side. “Take this.”

“Are you sure?” Brienne longs to be girded with a sword again, but she has no wish to leave Jaime unprotected.

Jaime nods. “It's in my way, and it’s of no use to me,” he says. “For now, I shall have to practice with a tourney sword, lest I cut off something else.” There’s a sharp glint in his eyes, daring her to agree with him.

She says nothing. He stands still as stone as she unbuckles the swordbelt from his waist, careful not to jar his right arm, but as she lifts the sword, she hears him let out a long ragged breath. She looks down, busying herself with adjusting the sword, giving him time to compose himself.

Last of all comes the helm, which covers the top half of her face, so only her chin is visible. “No one will know you’re a woman,” Jaime says. “I had thought to put you in a gold cloak, but I’m not sure I trust Tyrion’s sellsword, who commands them. So for now, though it irks you, you must wear the skin of a lion. My father's spies and Cersei's, and Varys's and Littlefinger's for that matter will not think twice to see me with a Lannister guardsman.”

“Where are we going that we have such need of secrecy?" Brienne asks.

“To find Arya Stark, of course,” Jaime says. 


End file.
